© 2000 By LuckySpider
I'm sitting in my pickup, with a street map of Seattle unfolded in front of me. I'm not looking at the map, but a casual passerby would think I was, and why not? The Seattle area's a motherfucker to find your way around in if you don't live there. A glance at my map and my out-of-state license plates would naturally lead to the assumption I'm just another lost tourist. I'm not of course, but these props provide an easy explanation to any concerned locals why I've been sitting, parked on this quiet suburban street, for the last ten minutes or so.
I glance at my watch, then shift my gaze up the street, squinting through the glare of the westering sun on my windshield. It's almost time for the real reason I'm parked here to show up. After a beat, a movement in the distance catches my eye. My heart begins to beat faster, and I tremble as adrenaline shoots through my system. I squint again, lick my lips. It is she, turning onto the street at the end of the next block, walking to her home about a block behind me. I force myself to calm down. A lot of complicated things are about to happen, and I only have a few seconds to prepare.
I look around quickly, scanning all sides, front, back. A fresh surge
goes though me. No one is around. Even one matron walking her dog, one Boeing
employee out puttering in his flowerbed, would have ruined everything. But
all the locals are snug in their houses, starting dinner, watching TV. It's
just me in my truck, and a young woman walking towards me. I'm not worried
that she will see me; if she looks at my windshield all she will see is
the sun reflecting back at her. I throw the map to the floor. Twisting in
my seat, I reach through the back window into my truck's canopied bed, where
I had earlier put my black tote full of goodies. The items I will need are
right on top, so I waste little time retrieving them: a roll of duct tape,
a gag made of a red rubber ball with a leather strap running through it,
and a wide length of cotton cloth, actually an old pillowcase I split lengthwise.
I slide over to the passenger's seat, where she will soon pass. I place
the ball-gag and the tape on the dashboard, and grip the pillowcase in my
sweating hands, leaving a goodly length of cloth in the center. With my
little finger, I unlatch the passenger's side door, holding the door closed.
Nothing to do now but wait for the right moment. Fight-or-flight chemicals are racing through my brain and bloodstream, I'm shaking and sweating, but I'm hanging on, forcing myself to stay calm, stay focused. I watch her approach. She is almost at my truck, a little smile on her face, nearly oblivious to her surroundings. A little tired perhaps from her day's work, she's in her own nice quiet neighborhood, nearly home. Barely registering the strange pickup truck to which she's drawing abreast. Enjoying the warm sun on the back of her neck, on the backs of her legs below her skirt. I can't stop my breath from coming quicker as she nears. I taste sweat on my upper lip. Her breasts, her breasts bounce just a little bit with each step she takes. She passes my door mere inches from me, and continues towards the back of my pickup, towards her home. In one silent motion I release the latch and push the door open with my knee as I get out.
Should I bother to go into why I'm here, how I found her? If it hadn't been her, it would have been someone else. I was walking downtown, hunting really, and passed a group of people waiting for a bus. She was one of those people. Brown hair, just barely too dark to be called blonde flowed down past her shoulders. Soft, brown eyes. Full, bee-stung lips, just enough make-up to enhance her features, not cover them. A business-like skirt-suit on a body that looked like it would be more at home writhing around a brass pole in a strip club than taking meetings in one of the nearby office buildings. Between one step and the next, I knew I would have her. That simple. The prey had been spotted; all I need do was run her to ground.
Details, details. I gambled, and I was right, that she worked nearby, and took that same bus every day. Over the next two weeks, I stayed in a nearby hotel and learned her routine. I took the bus with her, noted where her stop was, waited for her there, followed her at a discreet distance until I discovered where she lived. The more I saw her, the more I wanted her. When I was confident I knew her after-work routine as well as she did, I went home to Portland to prepare myself. I still didn't even know her name, though I could have found it out easily enough. I had no need to.
In one silent motion I release the latch and push the door open with my knee as I get out. Perhaps she hears something, senses motion behind her. Her head starts to turn, but I'm moving too fast, fueled by need and adrenaline. I swivel towards her, and whip the wide length of cloth over her head. I pull it tight around her face, bring the ends together behind her head, and grip them with one hand. Some of her hair tangles in the cotton cloth and gets painfully pulled as I yank her off balance. She is immediately, totally shocked and disoriented. Her only sound so far has been a gasp. She instinctively brings her hands up to her face, which enables me to wrap my free arm around her upper body and pin her bent arms to her chest. Now she is trying to fight in earnest, but she is being pulled backwards off her feet, her arms are pinned, she can't see. We reach the door of my truck, and when she realizes she is being pulled into a vehicle, her struggles become even more intense. She finally gathers a scream, but the cloth over her face fills her mouth as she opens it, effectively gagging her. I pull her upper body into my truck. I gather her in, forcing her body into a sitting position and yanking her the rest of the way in. I let go of her arms; she doesn't have enough room to fight me now. I grab her legs and swivel her into a sitting position, facing front. I reach across her, weighing her down with my body, and pull the door closed. Forcing her head down, I tie a quick, tight knot in the cloth covering her face. I grab the roll of duct tape off the dashboard. She is crying, screaming through the cloth, scrabbling at me with her fingernails. I can't even feel it. After a few tries, I succeed in grabbing her wrists. I force them together and wrap the tape around and around them.
As we struggle, her skirt rides up her legs and her panties become visible, a small white triangle formed by her thighs and the top of her skirt. Some part of me watches, entranced by this little triangle of cloth. It changes size and shape as she fights me, as her legs, waist, and bottom move about with her struggles.
Once her wrists are well bound, I take up the ball-gag. Gripping the knotted cloth at the back of her head, I shove the rubber ball into her mouth. Her muffled screams are suddenly cut off completely, but she continues to whimper and sob. I buckle the strap at the back of her head, cinching it so tightly her mouth is almost forced closed around the ball. She attempts another scream, producing only a ragged, muffled bawl. I'm gratified to realize just how little noise she is able to make now. I take just a second to look at her face, an expanse of white cotton cloth interrupted by the red ball-gag. I can see the outlines of her lips, the small bulge where her nose is. I listen to her high-pitched, panicky breaths and moans. I have been living for this moment for weeks.
I wrap the tape a few times around her legs above the knees. Then I secure her ankles together. Finally, I pull her taped wrists down to her ankles, doubling her over and out of sight of casual observers. I wrap the tape around and around her wrists and ankles, locking her into position. I sit up, breathing heavily, and look about again. Still no one on the street. This whole encounter has taken less than two minutes. I look down at my passenger. She has been silenced by the gag and by the difficulty of breathing in her stringent position. Her fierce struggles have been reduced to small, futile jerks and tics. She shivers and tosses her head. I close my eyes, take several deep breaths. Lick my lips, taste blood and sweat. My lip is cut. She must have got at least one good shot in before I taped her hands.
She is mine now. I start my truck, carefully check for traffic, and pull into the street. I force myself to forget my passenger, to concentrate on the minutiae of driving. With the music of her terrified whimpers in my ears, I head south.
She is seated in a wooden chair in the living room of
my house. Her wrists are crossed and bound with nylon cord to the
back of the chair. She is wearing a white cloth blindfold, and a knotted
cloth gag parts her beautiful lips and teeth. Her legs are spread and tied
at ankles and knees to the front legs of the chair. Her skirt has once more
ridden up her creamy thighs, and I can see her panties above the tops of
her thigh-high nylons. More nylon rope circles her chest above and below
her breasts, securing her lovely body more tightly to the chair.
I smile as I remember how she bucked and squirmed, moaning and chewing on her gag, as I cut and tore away her blouse and bra. Now she struggles, crying and whimpering, her cute little noises occasionally rising in volume as she hopes against hope that someone besides me will hear her. She wriggles her upper body back and forth, writhing against the ropes, perhaps trying to shake the clothespins off her nipples. The movements cause her breasts to bounce and jiggle delightfully. As I watch her squirm and mew, I recall our trip down from Seattle...